


Does She Speak Eloquently?

by Anonymous



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c., Saturday Night Live
Genre: Dubious Consent, Gross, Harassment, M/M, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-31 23:30:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10909680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sean Spicer has come here to chew bubble gum and swallow his pride, and he's all out of pride.





	Does She Speak Eloquently?

**Author's Note:**

> With apologies to Alanis Morissette.

Sean shuffles into the briefing carrying his box of props, only this time it's much fuller than usual. He hopes the cameras can't see all the post-it notes and ballpoint pens he's got at the bottom. He's already well aware of how this looks. 

"I want you to know," he says, behind the podium for one last time, "that I'm happy for you. I want nothing but the best for you all. Except Glenn," he says, and pulls out a miniature guillotine. "This is what I wish for you, Glenn. This is what you deserve, Glenn. But you're not getting what you deserve, Glenn. It's like that Rolling Stones song."

The BBC reporter holds up a hand. "Actually, the song says you can't always get what you want."

Spicey throws the guillotine at her.

**

The bushes, the bushes are a new low. But he doesn't know how to face the press. The president has told him by text that he fired James Comey because someone smart and qualified and respected and easily bullied at the Justice Department had told _him_ to, that was the story and they were sticking to it, and when he tried to ask for clarification nobody would pick up his calls. 

He's finally ushered in to see the president, who is behind his big desk, eating a bucket of KFC and staring at the television. 

"Mr. President," he says. His therapist is always telling him to use his words, except at their last session, when she started talking to him about Trumpcare and her concern for her patients, and he'd ended up screaming at her that maybe she _wasn't_ an essential benefit and now she had a restraining order against him. 

She should enjoy it while it lasted because Mike Pence was going to outlaw restraining orders by 2020. He knew. He'd been in on that meeting. He'd found it a little disturbing how manically Mitch McConnell had been chuckling. 

"Mr. President," he says again, and clears his throat. Donald Trump stares at him and Sean licks his lips nervously and Donald Trump stares at him some more. "I feel like firing the FBI director was a big step, and it would have been better for our relationship if you had--" Don't say consulted, don't say asked, don't say anything that implies that he is not in charge. "--let me know you were going to take it. So I could go out and tell all those chuckleheads from ABC and PBS why it was you did it, instead of waiting for you to text me back while I'm huddled among the bushes."

"I don't have time to tell people what I'm going to do," says Trump. He gets up and lumbers across the room, a drumstick dangling from one hand. "Rod writes the memo I asked him to and I do it."

Sean opens his mouth to object that that sounds a lot like it wasn't Deputy Attorney General Rosenstein's idea after all, and Trump shoves the drumstick in. "Take it," he says.

Maybe this abrupt sharing of food is his version of gratitude? Sean does, and nibbles on it a little. Fried food isn't good for his ulcer, but this seems important to Mr. Trump. 

Still, it feels a little weird when, after he's pulled the last shreds of meat from the bone with his teeth, Trump says, "Good boy," and smears the grease over his chin with his other hand. 

**

"As I'm sure you all know by now," says Sean, "I am being replaced by my former deputy, Sarah Huckabee Scammer." The Washington Post correspondent smiles a little too smugly and Sean throws his travel mug at her, and then pounds the podium because that mug cost $4.99 and it was dishwasher-safe. "But I don't want you all thinking that she's going to be your buddy and tell you what this administration is up to, because she's not. She's going to be another version of me. She's going to pervert the truth like me. She's going to drown you in lies like you're popcorn at a movie theater. And lies are butter." Technically it's not a prop. He had a tub of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter! at his desk and now it's empty and it had to go and he holds it up. "And you'd better believe it's butter." He tosses it on the floor. The NPR correspondent winces like he's dying to recycle that, but too bad for him. "It's butter, okay? It's all butter."

**

Thursday morning he wakes up feeling cheap and used like a burner phone that's been used to drunkenly leak to the press and then covered with snot and tears of regret and thrown away in a metro stop. Theoretically. Theoretically he feels like that. 

He doesn't feel any better when the president agrees to see him again. He's a little queasy from some bad ramen when he steps into the elevator, queasier when he steps out because one of the Secret Service agents was humming Spice Girls songs under his breath, and that had stopped being funny in high school, guys. 

He'll zig a zig ah them. He'll zig a zig ah them all. 

The doors open on what was probably a gym once, and is now a rec room, complete with three couches and as many TVs. Trump is off to the side, in a jacuzzi. There are cans of Diet Coke stacked around the rim. He cracks an eye open as Sean approaches. 

Sean wonders if he's going to be drowned today. He knew he shouldn't have complained about them changing the story on him. Now things are getting all Game of Thrones-y and they kill all the redheads in that. 

"Take off your clothes and get in," says Trump. The Secret Service agents are already gone. 

"But Mr. President, I can't swim."

"That's okay," says Trump. "We all float down here."

It's not really a compelling argument, except for Trump's not what anyone, even his press secretary, would call athletic, and the water is maybe three feet deep, so Spicey, as usual, does what he's told. 

"I told them," he says miserably, as he folds his briefs and puts them on top of his shirt. "I told them what you told me to tell them, that it was Rosencrantz's idea, and then you went and said you were going to fire him all along."

"Yes," says Trump. "I decided it would look better if I were the decider."

"It would look better if you'd decided that first," says Sean, "so I could tell everyone you were the decider. Now they're talking about a changing narrative and corruption and Nixon."

"I know." Trump cracks open a can of Coke, offers it to Sean. He takes it but resolves not to drink any of it: his ulcer has been killing him like it's Vladimir Putin and he wrote the piss tape report. "And they said I couldn't be presidential. Wrong!"

Sean watches the big orange belly bobbing up and down, up and down, even though there's really not much of a current in the jacuzzi. "But if we could communicate more--"

"We communicate plenty," says Trump. "I say jump, and you say, 'And land on your dick, Mr. President?'"

Sean's pretty sure that's not how the expression goes, so he laughs nervously. "I wish I knew how to quit you."

But Trump doesn't get the joke. Maybe Sean didn't say it jokingly enough. Maybe he does wish-- Trump sits straight up amid the bubbles, cans of Coke falling to the floor--or into the water--and shouts, "You can't quit me. If you try to quit me, I will have you shipped back to Slovakia like I did Mike Pence's horse."

Sean's scrambling out of the tub and picking up his suit and running for the elevator before he knows it. Which is good, his doctor is always telling him he needs more exercise.

**

"Er," says one of those snooty left coast journalists, "are--"

"No," he says, and throws, wow, that was not a prop, that was the framed family photo from his desk, and all that does is make him even angrier. "No, Chad, I am not okay. And I'm going to keep on being not okay after I exit this podium. I am not going to fade as soon as you close your eyes. It was a slap in the face how quickly I was replaced--"

"But surely you must have seen this--"

He scores a direct hit with his toy airplane prop. It doesn't make him feel any better. 

**

Spicey does his best to defend his virtue, he really does, but part of him wants this. Part of him wants to never go in front of all those cameras and judgmental smartypants ever again. And if a mob kiss is going to do that for him, well, it's an offer he can't refuse. 

After pushing him against the wall, Trump breaks off long enough to pant, "You know what you taste like, you taste like ketchup and well-done steak and something else, something uniquely you, something so you it's, like, essence of Spicey. So spicy."

Sean hasn't had steak or ketchup in at least a week. Maybe it's a metaphor, like saying he tastes like the president's favorite things. Better steak and ketchup than white supremacists on Twitter and loose dressing room doors, he guesses. 

"I know," Trump beams triumphantly. "It's jellybeans. You taste like jellybeans. I solved it, I have the best brain."

Sean's shoved three pieces of cinnamon gum in his mouth since entering the room. He's an emotional chewer. "It might be my gum," he suggests. "Cinnamon--"

"--jellybeans," finishes Trump. "I have to talk about jellybeans a lot. Kellyanne says I should try to be more Reaganesque. Everybody loves Reagan. They made a TV show out of it and everything. So I'm talking about jellybeans and selling weapons to freedom fighters like he did. It's so great, everybody wants these Trump brand machine guns. ISIL just put in another order the other day, we are selling so many guns."

"Uh," says Sean, as Trump's hand wraps a fifth of the way around his thigh. "Aren't ISIL the bad guys?" 

"No, you're thinking ISIS. ISIL is totally different. It ends in a different letter and everything. Also, they're my biggest fans." Trump kisses him again. "I'm thinking about giving them a preferred customer discount: what do you think?"

Sean thinks that at least if he gets thrown to the bottom of the Potomac in concrete shoes, he will never have to explain why Donald Trump is selling assault weapons to terrorists. 

**

In the back of Sean's mind he realizes he may have segued from telling everyone about the transition to throwing staplers at the foreign press.

He wouldn't have minded dying so much. He's not all that thrilled that instead of sleeping with the fishes he had to wash come out of his eyebrows and then go on public television and declare "a fatwah, but totally not Muslamic or anything" on Alec Baldwin. Or chase the taste of ketchup and burnt meat out of his mouth with extra gum and then not really deny that the White House was recording its visitors, while totally freaking out that the White House was recording its visitors. He had made some embarrassing squeaking noises in New Jersey he never wanted to hear ever again. 

But even that might have been bearable, if he'd been able to keep the job. Health care is expensive, and quitting after less than four months was going to look really bad on his resume. And he didn't know how he was going to support his gum habit on uninsurance employment--he didn't think food stamps covered it. Thanks, Paul Ryan.

This was all in the back of his mind. In the front of his mind, he's in front of a bunch of reporters, and for once they're all watching, they're all listening, scribbling down every little thing he says and not throwing up their hands and interrupting him. 

"And every time he speaks her name, does she know how he told me that he really bombed Tunisiastan in an attempt to divert attention away from the fact that he fired James Comey because he was getting too close to all that cash the Russian mafia gave him? Does she?" He laughs hollowly. "Of course she doesn't. But she will. Oh, yes. She will."

**

"Are you firing me?" he asks, voice cracking. 

Donald shrinks back, eyes darting around the room. "Oh god, don't be emotional at me, I hate it when people are emotional at me, I have to tell them, Eric, leave the room, no one told you you could enter this room, I don't care if your pet just died, or, of course I know your name, Tiffathing." He clears his throat. "No, you're just being reassigned for a little while. Now that we've put Kellyanne back into circulation someone needs to feed Steve Bannon his cricket slurry and scrape the dead skin off his back."

Sean stares at him. Trump smiles tentatively at him for a second, right up until he says, "I think I'd rather be fired."

Then Trump turns orange-red. Like an unripe bell pepper or that toy brick Sean's been saving for when they start building the wall and he has to explain it to those dumdums in the briefing room. He's never going to bring out that brick now, he realizes. They're never going to build that wall. "Fine," he snaps, "you're--going to get a visit from my bodyguard."

**

"So," says Sean Spicer, "I am no longer going to be here to remind you of the mess you made on election day." He reaches into the box and pulls out his last prop. "I am taking this cross-eyed bear, which does not represent Russia in any way. It represents the respect the president has for me, no matter what you might have heard from that cesspit of lies at NBC, because the president himself gave it to me. Even if Jared says he was just regifting it because he's scared of bears but was more scared to tell Vlad that, still, he gave it to me, and it's mine, Sarah can't have it like she has my job--" He swallows a sob and in the silence he can hear a clicking noise coming from the bear. He looks at it. It looks back at him. Its eyes swivel and look back at him. "Son of a bitch," he says, as the FBI burst in.


End file.
